


The Sweetest and Most Important Sound

by kaeorin



Series: Loki's Lullabies [49]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Affection, Avenger Loki (Marvel), Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Love, Pet Names, Pre-Relationship, Protective Loki (Marvel), Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: Just a bit of musing on the various names that Loki has for you.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Series: Loki's Lullabies [49]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678240
Comments: 22
Kudos: 270





	The Sweetest and Most Important Sound

It often occurred to you that other people might be surprised to hear the way Loki of Asgard spoke to you. To be honest, sometimes it surprised you, a little. He was literally not of this world, a beauty and a wisdom from an entirely different planet, but he could look at you and speak to you more or less like an equal. In conversations, you surprised him, sometimes, and you loved the way his eyes would grow wide for a moment before he allowed himself to laugh. It would have been so easy for him to remind you of your lower status, your humanity, but he never so much as breathed a word of anything like that.

One of your favorite things about him was the way his mouth shaped your name. Even from the very first time you’d nervously introduced yourself to him and he’d repeated your name back to you thoughtfully, it sounded like he was savoring the sound of your name. Whether said it with warmth and affection or irritation and frustration, you loved hearing him call out to you.

But he called you other things, too. Early on, he’d taken to calling you _Mortal_. Perhaps, in a way, it seemed like it could be throwing your humanity in your face, but he never said it with any venom. He called you Mortal when you’d been teasing him a little too long, when he was growing exasperated or frustrated and wanted to distance himself from you. Even before he’d first cupped your face in his hands and kissed you, you’d been able to hear the sigh of a plea in the name. _Enough_. Though he’d likely die before he’d ever admit it, you instinctively knew that he needed affection. Everybody did, no matter where they’d come from. If you went a little too long without smiling at him or letting your playful combativeness drop in favor of genuine warmth, he’d pull away and grit out a cranky “Mortal, I’m warning you...” and you always knew to wrap your arms around him and hold him close. 

As you spent more time together, but perhaps before either of you truly managed to acknowledge how you really felt for each other, he started to call you _Pet_. At first, you hadn’t been sure how to feel about that. There had been several nights where you’d had to lay awake, glaring at the ceiling and trying to figure out why the word raised your hackles the way it did. You were a real, grown-up, human woman; you weren’t anyone’s pet. Did he think he was above you? Had people of Asgard ever considered keeping Midgardians as actual pets? But he only ever called you that when you were alone, like it was something private. When you worked up the courage to join him in the sitting room, reading a book of your own alongside him on the sofa, he’d murmur the name at you gently, often without even looking up from his book: “Hello, pet.” 

You came to associate the name with quiet moments together. He always said it in a similar tone: soft, perhaps even affectionate. Especially early on, it seemed like something that the others might tease him for, so the fact that he was willing to risk it for you made you feel warm inside. Idly, you often found yourself pondering how he might react if you responded to the nickname with some kind of equivalent for him—Master, or My Lord. Some filthy part of you made you imagine him looking up at you with dawning realization, made you imagine his eyes going dark and his lips curling into a dangerous smile. Realistically, you knew he was far more likely to simply be confused. Maybe Asgardians had some other name for the people who cared for pets. Maybe they didn’t have the other associations with the word Master. Mostly you kept your thoughts to yourself, sticking with the much safer “Loki”, or very rarely “Your Highness”.

He started calling you _Darling_ a little bit before the two of you became a Thing. It began as a teasing thing, much like _Mortal_ , but his voice seemed to curl tenderly around the _Darling_. It was never half as brittle as the other. He called you Darling when you pushed just a little too far into dangerous territory—not a fight, but...something else. He would press into your personal space and let his eyes linger on your lips and then hum the word at you like it was supposed to make you back away. It sent thrills through you. His eyes were heavy when he looked at you. At first, you’d thought you were only projecting when you saw things in them, fooling yourself into believing that he could possibly feel the same kind of hunger that you felt for him, but each time he got so close to you, the dilation of his pupils was unmistakable. He’d watch you with the gaze of a predator, sometimes, stalking your movements through a room, if not the whole Tower, and by the time he took to pressing you against walls in darkened corners, you were already a mess. 

He’d taken the next step. 

You’d been pinned against him there in the darkness, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, and he’d watched the movement intently. When he’d raised his eyes to yours, there had been something unmistakable in his gaze, and you’d nodded without thinking about it. He drew your lip between his teeth first, biting down just hard enough to make you nervous without actually hurting you, and then dragged his teeth over its plumpness. Without meaning to, you had whimpered and reached up to put your arms around his shoulders. He’d drawn back, then, far enough to grin at your and rub his nose against yours. Before you could grow frustrated and try to move forward to kiss _him_ if he wasn’t going to kiss _you_ , he’d slanted his lips over yours and stolen your breath. Your knees wobbled. Your knees _actually_ wobbled, threatening to send you to the ground. But he’d only laughed low in his throat and supported you with his body as he staked his claim on you.

You were done for, of course, from that very moment. He still called you Darling sometimes, especially in the presence of the others, and when his eyes found yours, you often saw that he was thinking about that first kiss, just as you were. It was like a secret the two of you had. You couldn’t miss the way Thor’s eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead the first time he heard the nickname, but no one pressed either of you on it.

 _Love_ came next, in every sense of the word. You had tried not to let yourself fall too deeply, too quickly. You’d tried to keep reminding yourself that he was so far above you that there was no way that he could possibly feel anything like this for you. Even when you stole into his room at night, or he into yours, and he let you curl yourself against his body and stroked your hair, you told yourself that you were alone in this. It was the only truly safe option, now that you’d made the inevitable mistake of falling for him. When you talked in bed at night, the endearment would rumble through him and go straight to your heart. You told yourself that it was the best you could hope for, and you treasured it each time he said it. 

And he said it so easily. It was not merely reserved for those private moments as your bodies were returning to normal behind closed doors. He could imbue the word with such depth of meaning, give it the feeling of any number of secrets lying somewhere in his mind, but he could also say it almost in passing. It hit you hard each time. It became almost like second nature to him. He would be busy, half-distracted, looking every bit the fae king you loved, and he would murmur the endearment at you without a thought. You’d hand him tea, or lean in to kiss his cheek (in private, of course), or sometimes try to distract him by asking him to read a certain page aloud to you, and he would acknowledge you with a soft “Thank you, Love,” or “Missed you, Love,” or “My lonely Love,” as simply—but sweetly—as he said your name. You tried not to react too blatantly in front of the others, but you always felt your cheeks grow warm. The idea that he could love you, as silly and foolish as it felt, made you feel like you were glowing. 

He’d gasped out his confession in bed, of course, while you were sitting astride him. He had just finished, and was only just beginning to loosen his bruising grip on you, when he’d whispered the words with his heaving chest. “I love you.” Your traitorous brain wouldn’t let you make sense of the words at first. Of course he was only being exceptionally effusive in the afterglow of orgasm. You’d laughed, mostly to yourself, and patted his chest affectionately, forcing yourself not to go too far off the handle. But your reaction had made him open his eyes, made him look up at you with brows heavy like a question, and repeat himself. He sounded so certain. That second time, it felt less like he’d simply gotten carried away by the things you could do to him, and more like...he meant it. Your eyes had gone wide as you finally allowed yourself to accept the words. Embarrassingly, your first response had been a mumbled “Are you sure?” even as he pressed deep inside your body. 

Some time later, after he’d finished thoroughly convincing you of his truthfulness and coaxing your own confession from you, he’d held you tightly against him and whispered poetry to you in the dark. From then on, every time he called you My Love, your face grew hot—not merely warm—and you had to fight desperately to keep from calling up the memory of that night, especially when you were surrounded by your teammates.

There were other pet names, ones you didn’t understand. In the morning, when his voice was sleep-rough and rumbly, he would purr things at you in what you could only assume was Asgardian. Perhaps he didn’t expect you to listen very carefully. When you started to pick out repeated words and asked for a translation, you saw the tips of his ears go pink as he tried to avoid the question. But the same words kept coming, pouring from him in private until you had to believe that you knew what he was saying. Maybe you would never get a direct translation into English, but the love in his voice, the hunger, the tenderness, it was irrefutable. On the rare occasion that you summoned the courage to say the words back at him, he often laughed—quick and sharp, like he hadn’t expected that from you—and smothered you with kisses.

Sometimes he called you dear heart, especially in bed together as he drew his fingertips along your face. You liked the sound of that almost as much as you liked the sound of his dear heart when you pressed your ear to his chest. He called you little one when he was teasing you, or when you were teasing him, when his hands were large around your wrists or against your cheeks. He never used it to make you feel small, only protected. Safe. If you smirked too wickedly at him from across a room full of Avengers, he would find a way to growl the term against your ear. It made you shiver. It made you remember who you belonged to. Who loved you.

Perhaps one of your favorite pet names first occurred around the time that the team’s suspicions grew too large to ignore. They took to teasing you, making their moves on you while Loki looked on. You saw through their game from the very first moment, but Loki never caught the knowing glint that sparkled behind their eyes. They all looked a bit like caricatures of themselves, with exaggerated winks and comical attempts to “subtly” drape their arms around your shoulders. You laughed it off, even though you knew each time that you’d have to soothe the storm in Loki’s face soon enough. He maintained his composure for a surprisingly long time, only cracking when Thor, of all people, flung his arm around you and all but crushed you against his great chest. That was the final straw. 

Loki propelled himself off of the sofa and was at your side in an instant. He took your hand in his, but thankfully did not try to yank you away from his brother. Still, he snarled up at Thor, eyes flashing, as he spat “She is mine.”

Thor released you immediately, of course, and then clapped his hands together joyfully. You could feel yourself blushing even as Loki pulled you close. His touch was jealous, possessive, but...protective. You wanted to shiver, but slid your arm around his waist instead. “At long last!” Thor had cried, completely ignoring Loki’s baleful glare. “It’s been ages, brother. Do the others know?”

Things grew a little blurry, then: you could remember that Thor had pressed Loki for more information—how it started, who else knew, if you were happy—but all of that had more or less faded out. Loki was still gripping you tightly, but he brushed his thumb against the back of your hand, and it was soft. He made some attempt to answer some of Thor’s questions, but when he said he had to spread the news, Loki had only pressed his forehead against your temple. And then Thor had gone. You couldn’t even be worried about word getting out. Loki was murmuring, almost whispering, repeating the words “You’re mine,” almost to himself. When you turned your head to try to look at him, his eyes were so soft. You had to swallow, hard. “You’re mine, right?” he’d asked then, and you might have laughed at the obviousness of the question if it weren’t for the uncertainty in his features.

He didn’t know.

Words had escaped you. You couldn’t have spoken aloud if your life had depended on it. Instead, you turned to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into you, crushing him in an embrace that had to speak for you instead. Perhaps he understood. 

He never had to ask that question again.


End file.
